


Faith, Trust, and Pixie Dust.

by Trekkele



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angry Bones, Angry Spock, Gen, Missing Scenes, Post-Star Trek (2009), Somehow, Spuhura in the background being cute, Vulcan Mind Melds, aka: Bones thinks this is bullshit, heavy themes discussed but not elaborated on graphically, so does Spock, the consequences of letting someone shove their fingers in ur brain and swishing around, tw: mentioned mental assault, why cant we all just get along, zen Jim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 17:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19977724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trekkele/pseuds/Trekkele
Summary: Something happened on Delta Vega.Something happened, Spock and Len are both sure of it, but getting Jim to medbay is only half the battle. Figuring out how to help him may be a lot harder.Or: the Delta Vega mind meld, viewed as something other then a minor inconvenience.





	Faith, Trust, and Pixie Dust.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what i like to call a 'procrastination fic', because it was a concept doc I re-opened when I was frustrated with something else and then suddenly it was 10k words and needed double that to finish. Everyone say thank you to my soulmate au for being a little shit.  
> Many thanks to [Fox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacefoxen/pseuds/Fox) and [PrairieDawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrairieDawn/pseuds/PrairieDawn) for the beta and cheer reading on this monster, my proper verb tenses and plot resolutions are all thanks to you lovely talented people.  
> Something that bothered me about the Delta Vega mind meld was how a lot of fics used it as a way to make Spock jealous, when I always felt he would be mostly horrified by the implications. So figured, be the angst fic you want to see in the world, and I started writing it. It only took (checks doc history) 1 and 1/2 years.  
> *Some vulcan words translated in the end notes

Dr. McCoy has always trusted in things he can see, or feel. 

Like a pulse beneath his fingertips or the discoloration that indicates internal bleeding, or even the tricorder readings that can tell him which ribs are broken, not two seconds after Jim gives a crooked grin, and a “ _don’t worry Bones it’s just two ribs and a twisted ankle this time_ ”

It worries him, how Jim can assess himself faster than a tricorder can, and how he has been doing it since the first day they met. 

He trusts in Gaila’s talent with codes and numbers and bright eyes, in Uhura's wicked one liners and the soft smiles she saves for when Jim isn't looking, in the way Chekov expects kindness from everyone until they prove him wrong. 

He trusts in things he can see. Which is why he trusts Jim’s ability to lead. 

In his heart, which has always been too big for a kid who carries the world on his shoulders. In his dangerous smiles and bloodied teeth and the promise that if he ever goes down, he’ll go down swinging and _hell,_ if he doesn’t take the bastards with him. He trusts he’ll follow the asshole to the end of the galaxy and then some. 

He also trusts that a man's mind is private, somewhere he doesn’t have to worry about people sticking their fingers in uninvited, poking and prodding and angry, vicious whispers left behind. 

They always leave something behind. 

He's a doctor. He knows what it looks like. Not this exactly, maybe, but the general idea. He's seen the worst the galaxy has to offer in an ER shift and then he's been told to sit down and shut up because he ain't seen nothing like what StarFleet has to offer before. 

Jim comes back, and it's frantic rush of mathematical improbabilities and science he's not sure he can understand at the speed these kids are going. 

But there's something off, about Jim, and it's the way a room feels when someone shifts everything three inches to the left and doesn't warn you. 

He's here. He's working faster then the warp core, but he's also three inches to the left of everyone, all slightly out of phase. He doesn’t have time to worry. Doesn't have time to pull Jim aside and look him in the eye and try and figure out what he's hiding. Why he flinches from sudden movement and why he avoids touching anyone and why he seems lost in his head if he's given a moment to find it. 

They don't have time, and then they do. 

It'll take two weeks at impulse to reach Earth, and for some godforsaken reason SFC has asked them to make their way back on their own. 

Well, actually, they tell them the reason. Destroyed ships, and whatever's left is patrolling the borders and picking up Kelvin pods scattered around the debris that used to be Vulcan. Good news is that casualties will be lower than expected. 

They all need some good news. 

Bad news is that Jim has spent the last 4 hours working. Figuring out a detailed shift schedule that includes repairs and maintenance and everything necessary to keep them from floating dead in space.

Which in itself wouldn't be bad news, except he's literally spent 4 hours doing that, with maybe two half hour naps in between, and this is on top of the 36 previous hours of academic suspension, an extreme allergic reaction, being beaten, shot, and marooned, beaten again, shot and beaten again, and then not sleeping normally. Because, half hour assigned naps or not, there is no way Jim slept.

No wonder the kid was jumpy. 

If he were being honest, Len would love to blame it on his injuries, and the adrenaline rush he had been riding for far too long. But he'd seen Jim in high pressure situations before, and this is a different kind of jumpy. Spooked, almost. Like a cat who's fallen in water and thinks every puddle is gonna be just as deep. 

So yeah, Len believes in a lot of things. Things he can see and touch and feel. But sometimes it all comes down to intuition, and right now he knows something hinky is going on. 

And he thinks it has to do with the pointy eared Vulcan bastard. 

Except he can't call him that, because as much as he wants to hate him, as much as he wants to refuse to work with him and destroy his career for what he almost did to Jim, he also can't imagine operating with the enormous pressure Spock has been under. 

Hell, he almost didn’t make it, and he didn't have a telepathic connection to the planet as it was destroyed. 

It’s Jim though, it always seems to be Jim, who ends up being the angel on his shoulder. (He also seems to be the devil, but Len expects that much).

After the first senior staff meeting, (senior staff, they were all goram babies, what the fuck was command thinking?) Jim pulls him and Spock aside. Spock refused to retake the captaincy, and if Len was less inclined to mistrust him, he would have seen that Jim’s almost uncanny ability to gain the loyalty of anyone had started working its magic. 

Len feels obligated to point out that medically, Spock is in no condition to take over a ship right now. 

“You need to let it go.” Jim says earnestly, hand on Len’s elbow and eyes begging him not to make this more complicated. Spock is stiff beside him, something like regret in the upward sweep of his pointy brows and tilted ears. 

“Let it go?” He hisses, still eyeing Spock but aware of Jim on every level possible. The kid still hasn't been to sickbay. 

“Yes. Let it go” Jim answers like he isn’t asking him to forget the beating, the marooning, the stubborn refusal to trust the only person who had any useful ideas. 

“It’s like - oh _nebulae_ , what's the word I’m looking for? Plausible deniability?? No, but close enough. Look at me Bones.” He demands, sudden and abrupt, and Len drew his eyes away from the way Spock's ears curl inward and flush at his glare. 

“We all did things we regret. We all did things we thought necessary,” and he knows Jim still hasn't forgiven himself for using Amanda Grayson as bait. 

Another person he was given a shoestring and a toy stethoscope and told to save. Everyone on this ship is damn lucky he’s good at his job. 

“But we need to get home, and we can't do that if we don't learn to work with each other.” Jim’s eyes are soft again, and Len knows he can't do it, can't hold onto the warm comfort of having a direction for his anger if it means making things harder for his Captain. 

But, god, he is a Captain now isn't he?

“Alright.” Len looks back at Spock and finds him already meeting his gaze. “I do think he’ll be a decent first officer, if that helps.” He can see the tiny smirk out of the corner of his eyes, and it’s tired and dusty, but at least Jim looks more like himself and less like Atlas with the sky on his shoulders. 

“High praise from a doctor, no doubt,” Spock responds, surprising all of them. “If it is of any consequence, Dr McCoy,” Spock continues, softly. “I did believe the Captain would be safe off the ship.”

Len almost answers that, almost bites out sarcasm sharp enough to make even a Vulcan react, but Jim beats him to it. 

“And I would have been, if the pod hadn’t been damaged in the attack. Doesn't matter, Hoth is about as boring as the arctic.” He moves out of the room, faster than anyone with that many bruises should, and he and Spock are left to stare after him, both wondering about Jim Kirk. 

If Len is right, and something deeper than multiple lacerations and near misses is going on, he’d bet it started on that planet. 

* * *

Spock believes in things he can prove. 

In the way science and mathematics and music intersect in almost 95% of Federation species. In the way Nyota allows her faint accent to slip in the presence of those she cares about. In the way algorithms and simulations show how individuals will react in similar situations. 

He also believes that science is a continuous interaction between corrections and assumptions proven false, then true, then false again. 

No one thing is ever more true then another, it simply has, at a given time, more evidence available in its favor. 

Maybe someday he will find a god at the edge of the galaxy and his brother will laugh at the coincidence. Maybe he never will. As of now, he has no proof either way. 

Maybe someday he will prove his sister cheats at chess and she _does_ owe him cookies, homemade and dripping dark chocolate. Perhaps not. 

He had sufficient proof of Captain Kirk's transgressions and unsuitability to the StarFleet code of conduct. Now he simply had more proof on the opposing hypothesis, that Jim Kirk was as remarkable as so many of his colleagues believed. 

Standing at the foot of his mother's bed, watching her blankets rise and fall, he also had proof that Captain Kirk was willing to risk his life and safety, even for those he's never met. 

The thought is oddly discomforting to someone who owes that impulse so much. 

It is Dr. McCoy who wanders over to adjust her IV patches and the stasis field for her shattered ribs. They have not interacted in the 3.5 hours since the captain asked them to “play nice”. 

If his mother were awake, she would no doubt laugh and mention how impossible he had found that request as a child. A small comfort then, that she would not find a teasing ally in his Captain. Not yet. 

He can't help but respect the doctor- for having manipulated the system into giving him exactly what he wanted, for having the foresight to recognize how truly valuable Captain Kirk would be in a crisis, and for the unwavering, illogical loyalty he has for this one inexplicably _infuriating_ individual. 

Spock is self aware enough to admit that he finds himself jealous of that loyalty, and he is Vulcan enough to pack it neatly away when the feeling arises. 

He is, as of yet, unaware of how loyal he was, except in the nebulous way he acknowledged how odd it is that Captain Kirk was indeed his Captain. 

And how anyone who doubted it must be a fool. 

He does not expect Dr McCoy to address him. In truth, he is not certain he would address Dr. McCoy, were their positions reversed. 

“She’s doing remarkably well, Commander, especially considering how much damage her ribs took. If we’re lucky, most of it will heal before she wakes up, and she won't need to go through all the pain of regeneration.” There is a softness behind the doctor’s words that Spock recognizes from even the Vulcan healers he has seen - an acknowledgement of the unique pain helplessness inspires. 

There is also an odd sort of respect. 

Perhaps the doctor had not been lying. Perhaps he does believe, despite the absence of proof, that Spock can be a good first officer. 

It is oddly comforting. 

* * *

A blind man would know how much Spock, despite being Vulcan and therefore allergic to all decent feelings, loves and respects his mother. 

Leonard was not blind, not counting that one incident with the Romulan cocktails in grad school. And that had lasted only 24 hours anyway. 

But you can’t truly hate a man who loves his ma, that’s something he learned at his grandaddy's knee, because it's as universal as looking up at the stars. 

The fact that Spock has been working non-stop so that Jim could relax a little helps. 

Of course, just because Jim _can_ relax doesn't mean he does, and Len still hasn't seen that kid in anything close to medical capacity since last week’s cooking incident. Jim should not be allowed to chop vegetables while talkin’ about miniaturized warp cores - he has too many stars in eyes to see the knife. 

‘Course, Len’s pretty sure there’s more wrong with him than a cut this time. He hasn’t even fully recovered from the allergic reaction that got him onto this ship in the first place.

“Don't suppose you've seen Jim anywhere?” he asks, praying the answer is something like “ _yes, passed out in a comfortable bed with a good looking nurse wrapping his ribs_ ”. 

For some reason it’s always the ribs. Calcium deficiency at key growing dates was a goddamn nuisance. 

He is asking for too much, but his heart still sinks at the minuscule amount of surprise Spock shows - apparently Jim was right and it _is_ all in the eyebrows - “I assumed the captain had come to sickbay after he checked Mr. Scott’s progress in engineering.” Spock pauses, either for dramatic effect or to contemplate the sheer scale of self destructive human disaster that iss Jim Kirk, “I take it he has not?”

Len sighs, perfectly capable of some dramatics of his own. “No. And I would know, given the number of allergies that boy has to painkillers. I’d need to approve anything they give him, it's right in his file.” He wanders over to the control panel at his left, almost hoping he had checked in with a different doctor. 

Fat chance of that. 

“Do you know where else he could have headed after engineering?” Spock follows him over to the panel, watching the computer try to locate a single man with only a fraction of its sensors functioning and half of the ship missing. 

“No. However, he may have remained in engineering in an attempt to assist with the repairs.” Len snorts, leave it to a Vulcan to make that sound like a perfectly reasonable idea. For all intents and purposes, Jim shouldn't be walking, let alone helping repair a starship.

“I know you've read his file, he’ll do a lot more than _attempt_ to repair anything.” Let Kirk near something with a wrench it would probably gain sentience in an hour. Len had the dubious honor of meeting Winona Kirk, and knew that, at least, was genetic. The general air of common sense and responsibility had all gone to Sam, however. 

Spock wears a look a little like regret. “I meant no disrespect,” he says softly. “However, given his current condition I did not think he would be able to do more then take Mr. Scott’s report”. 

Len is a poker by nature. He pokes things, sees how they tick, and then fixes them up so they tick better. He isn't good at doing it gently like Jim could, digging at you till you couldn't remember how broken you'd been cuz he fixes ya up with bits of himself, casual as you please. Maybe someday Len would be as good at _gentle_ as Jim was, subtle and insidious, but for now he sticks to what he knows - poking in all the places he knows look funny and waiting for something he can help fix. 

This guilt isn’t gonna help any of them, least of all himself. Jim had said let it go. So he would, like that damned blonde in his daughter’s classics collection. 

“So, knowing he was pushing himself to the breaking, you let him wander on down to engineering where he could just push himself a little further?” Spock's eyebrows do that curious thing where he looks like a cat, an analogy not helped by the way his ears lie flat against his head, points up and faintly flushing green. 

“I assure you, if I believed I could convince Captain Kirk to come directly to sickbay I would. However, the Captain -“

“However, the Captain is a stubborn fool and sometimes letting him have his way a little lets you have your way a lot. Good job, Mr. Spock, you’ve learnt the first rule of working with Jim Kirk.” Len is bemused at the way Spock's mouth snaps shut and his ears stop doing their best hissing cat impression. 

“I see,” He says slowly, perhaps regretting his entire career up until that moment. 

“No, you don't. But you will.” Len answers, oddly trying to reassure the man he was perfectly willing to hate a few hours ago. “If it makes you feel better, Jim never lets anyone notice how bad it gets. If you noticed it, he must think you’re capable and trustworthy.” Or at least capable. Jim’s trust issues could fill memory alpha’s data banks. 

“I see,” Spock says again. And maybe smirks a little. “Or perhaps I don’t.” 

“That's the spirit!” Len almost claps him on the shoulder, horrifying his diplomacy professor halfway across the solar system, but as luck would have it the medbay doors slide open with a far less ominous creak than yesterday and spit both Jim and a laughingly terrified and bleeding engineer into the medbay. 

Typical. Kid finally gets here and it isn't even for his own injury. 

* * *

Spock does not expect anything like camaraderie from the doctor. He knows where his loyalties lie, and for most of their acquaintance they have been at odds, Spock posing a danger to Kirk, who has been McCoy’s captain for far longer then he thinks either of them realize. 

He regrets this, as much as he regrets any action taken in the last 41 hours, 27 minutes, and 64..65 seconds. Vulcans have always had impeccable internal timing. Under other circumstances he would pride himself on his accuracy. 

However, his captain is most definitely using the engineer as a crutch as much as the engineer is using him. 

Dr. McCoy surges forward, changing pace with a fluidity Spock finds impressive. Gone is the friendly demeanor, the attempt at distracting or, perhaps, comforting him. Within seconds he is barking out commands, handing over the engineer to the two nurses who appeared from - somewhere. 

As for Kirk, the doctor has one arm around him, a firm grip on his ribs, and the other arm over his shoulders. Even Spock can tell that the captain’s protests are weak, the events of the last two days rapidly catching up to him. 

If this is, as Spock suspects, the first time the captain has stood still long enough to remember everything that has happened, it may be that his body is finally refusing to give into his many demands. 

“ _Nehm dein hahnt aruhp fun mich, Bones, dus tiht mere vei_ ,” Captain Kirk mutters, practically curled into the doctor's neck, a move which would be embarrassingly intimate to observe were he not so clearly in pain. Dr McCoy clucks in sympathy, perhaps not understanding his words, but hearing the discomfort in his voice and trying to comfort him as best he can. 

Spock is surprised to hear the Captain speak Yiddish, not expecting to hear his mother's tongue outside the occasional snide comment from his sister’s vid-comms and his own logs. 

But in this moment, he can be of service. 

“The captain requested that you remove your hand from his ribs, Doctor. It appears he may have broken them.” Dr McCoy does not question him, but simply shifts his hand to Kirk’s waist, and the captain practically sinks into him at the release of pressure on his ribcage. 

He does not let go of the doctor’s other hand, clutching at his fingers like a lifeline. 

“So you speak Yiddish, too. That could be handy, Mr Spock.” The doctor’s voice breaks him out of his musings on the cultural differences between Earth and Vulcan, and how no one on his home planet would grasp so desperately at anyone but their bondmate’s hands. And even then… 

He accepts the doctor’s comment for what it is, a tacit invitation to help him treat the captain as much as they can without surgery and the medical equipment that was damaged in the initial attack. 

The captain is still muttering, sitting on the bio bed as Dr McCoy sets up to take readings from the tricorder at his hip. It takes a moment for Spock to parse through the Yiddish, classic English, and what appears to be Andorian. An odd combination. 

“The captain is listing all the tasks which he feels are more important than his own health at the moment, Doctor.” Spock almost smirks at the fuzzy eyed glare Kirk throws in his general direction. He has enough siblings to know how to play this game. 

Although the idea of Dr McCoy as the parent is perhaps a bit -- much. 

“Would you like a translation?” he asks, still looking the Captain in the eyes. 

“Why thank you, Mr. Spock, but no. I don’t have to hear the list to know it’s bullshit.” Dr. McCoy ignores the angry glare Kirk transfers to him, adjusting one more setting on the bio bed readout before turning to face the captain completely. “Shut up, Jimmy, the ship can run itself for the fifteen minutes I need to make sure you won’t die on some poor ensign down in a jefferies tube.”

Kirk scrunches his nose, concentrating very hard before finally saying, in Standard, “Fine. But only so I won’t traumatize some ensign later.” 

“So you admit that you're close to collapse!” the doctor says far too cheerfully, sticking a metal straw into the captains mouth before he can gather his outrage into a coherent sentence. “Hydrate before I have to give you an IV, infant.” The captain grabs the cup from his outstretched hand, somehow managing to make the act of drinking look petulant. 

Spock can admire such silent forms of protest.

* * *

Between Jim on the bio bed, trying not to fall asleep and broadcasting his annoyance with fidgets and random sighs, and the Vulcan shadow behind him broadcasting faint guilt - actually broadcasting, though, his shielding must be shot to hell - McCoy has his hands full. 

And that is before he starts cataloguing the walking Code R-1 that is Jim Kirk. He’ll be lucky to live long enough to gain Spock's trust, if he keeps treating his body like this. 

Despite himself, Len finds that he likes Spock. He has the dry humor down pat, he is efficient and genuine and takes his own health far more seriously then Jim ever does. He can't hold onto the anger, however justified, that he wants so badly to use as a distraction. Of course, it’s not like Spock needs to know that. 

Jim is fighting sleep pretty successfully for a guy who used his face as a weapon three times in the last couple of days, and while he _could_ give him a sedative, Len has no idea how it would react to the pain meds he has on board already. If Jim were a normal boy, and not super special and hypersensitive to every gosh darn pain medication known to man, and other, and some unknowns, that might not be a problem. But he was. 

So he couldn’t really give him a sedative, and there is no way to force the kid to take a nap. He’d tried, at the academy, but Jim Kirk fell asleep when Jim Kirk fell asleep and that was that. 

Also he definitely has a broken rib. Several. 

Spock shifts, either getting his shields back under control or deciding that guilt is illogical and serves no current purpose so chucking it out his brain would be a good idea. 

It _is_ a good idea, since McCoy can only deal with one self sacrificing, guilt ridden overachiever at a time and Jim is currently occupying that position.

Spock stands opposite McCoy, hands folded neatly behind his back, almost at attention. “Captain, the secondary engineering division reports that the main engine has been sufficiently repaired, and rec rooms three, four, and six have been converted for the remainder of the -” the minute Spock starts droning on about the repairs and all the reports he must have missed while he was sitting in medbay, Jim started to relax. It’s barely noticeable at first, just his fingers not tapping on the soft fabric of the standard issue blanket. Then his shoulders drop the .5 cm to the bed that they’d been hovering over. 

He’s still flinching, ever so slightly, whenever Len gets too close to his face. But his blood pressure is hovering around acceptable, and his ribs are healing nicely with the mini regen he’s managed to charge between constant use.

Slowly, but nicely. 

He hands the unit over to Spock and shows him how to hold it over Jim’s right side. If he wants to bore Jim to sleep with reports, he might as well be useful while he does it. 

He already is being useful, really, but empty hands knit the devil’s stockings and all. 

What the hell that even means, he may never know; his gran still hasn’t given him a straight answer.

But Spock is steady, moving the gen-unit slowly as it highlights every broken piece of Jim's rib cage, so fragile for being the only thing protecting that stupidly big heart from the rest of the world at the expense of his liver and brain and maybe his bloody fists. 

Too big a heart. Would anyone believe him when they ask why Jim is like this? Would anyone listen, or would they just figure he was a sap, half in love and half bewitched by the charming whirlwind that is his best friend? 

They wouldn’t be wrong, maybe, but fuck if that makes it any less true. 

He brushes Jim’s collarbone as he draws back to his side of the bio-bed, Spock managing on his own, and suddenly Jim is awake again, eyes rushing around the room, cataloguing every beep and click as his hands twist in the blue sheets.

“I'm going to start setting your ankle.” He will not acknowledge it, not until Jim is more stable, until he can be sure Jim won’t bolt for some reason that makes no sense to anyone but him. He does notice the concern on Spock’s face, the way his eyebrows draw down and his ears prick up, opposing reactions that mean the same thing. “It’s not broken yet, but you damaged it while playing a big damn hero - _again_ \- and I’d rather be safe than sorry.” He cuts off the question before Jim can do more then open his mouth, wishing he could push him back down off his elbows and onto the pillow. He won’t risk it, not now. “It’s a temporary thing, Jim, I’ll take it off before you leave medbay and it won’t affect your mobility at all.” 

Jim nods, once, and looks at him. Just looks at him, and then lies back down, letting his eyes close.

If Len had a lucky star, he’d be counting it right about now.

Spock is frowning, as much as Vulcans frown.The corners of his mouth are tipped downward and his ears are twitching, back and forth, back and forth. He keeps his eyes on the gen-unit, but pauses every now and then to look at Jim’s face, and then his ears twitch. Back and forth.

Len might be in need of a nap as well.

But something about Jim’s behavior is bothering Spock as well, and while he doesn't really know him, Spock has been dedicated to keeping Jim alive.

Excepting the whole _strangling_ incident.

But you know what? Len has known Jim long enough and _still_ has the occasional urge to strangle him. It’s probably a sign of good sense, more than anything.

Come to think of it, all of Jim’s friends have threatened to strangle him on a regular basis, mostly for pun related crimes. Uhura still hasn’t forgiven him for the abomination involving the French, and Klingon words for kitten and dumplings.

Len is just happy sometimes he isn’t smart enough to keep up. 

Jim is sleeping, finally, eyes still half open, but sleeping. Now, that had been terrifying the first time he’d seen it. Spock doesn’t even blink, just flicks an eyebrow over at McCoy, who reassures him while running a tox screen. The ankle isn’t just twisted, there are weird looking - bite? marks wrapping around it, too.

Looks like “Hoth” wasn’t as uninhabited as most people thought. If Jim were awake he would ask him what the hell he’d been thinking walking around on that ankle, but it issn’t like any of them are going anywhere for awhile. 

He can shout as much as he wants when the kid wakes up. 

Spock is frowning again, running the gen-unit over the last of Jim’s ribs. Len is working on the cuts that were scattered over his torso and arms. The tox screen was taking way too long for his liking. The fact that it isn’t taking longer than usual is inconsequential. 

“Doctor, do you know if there was anyone on Delta Vega with the Captain other than misters Scott and Keenser?” Spock keeps his eyes on the regen, the set of his shoulders giving his apprehension away.

Len has no such problem. He glares at Spock’s forehead, not really sure where this is going, but sure he isn’t going to like it. He drops his eyes back to the nasty looking scrape down Jim’s side.

“Not that I’m aware of, Mr Spock, but I suppose misters Scott or Keenser would be the best to ask, wouldn’t they?” He doesn’t even need to look up, he can feel the question Spock started to ask, and cuts him off the same way he did with Jim. 

Huh. Something to think about later. “If you want to ask the captain, you’ll need to wait ‘til he wakes up on his own.” He can hear the intake of breath as Spock gears up to argue with him, but Jim’s skin feels hot beneath his touch and that is never a good sign.

“Doctor, I apologize, but if my suspicions have any validity, we may need to wake the captain up.” That gets his attention. He places the bandages onto the table beside the bed, giving Spock his full attention for the first time since Jim came stumbling in under someone else's weight. 

But Spock never gets to prepare him for what comes next.

Jim, only half asleep as he always is in a bed that isn’t his own, shifts slightly. It’s enough to drag Len’s attention away from Spock.

He mutters something, and Jim never talks in his sleep, except for the nightmares he never lets last long enough for McCoy to understand. How he manages to drag himself out of his own dreams is something he’s never bothered to explain to Len, but something about this is different.

For one, his body might just refuse to wake up, battered as it is. For another - honestly he isn’t sure what, but the slow dread in his stomach rises to somewhere behind his heart and something other then logic or experience tells him this is bad.

Jim rarely speaks Yiddish in his nightmares, he’s tucked the language he shares with his mother and brother under something so secure that even his subconscious can't dig it up unless he is awake and willing.

But now he mutters in the rolling syllables that Len has never needed to understand to know the gist of, clipped and soft and _painful_ , now.

Spock is holding his breath.

He has to do something, Jim twisting under his fingers while he hovers over his ribs, his heart, trying to figure out what he can do, anything he can do. He leans over, forgetting his tricorder in his desperation, and presses his hand to the side of Jim’s face to check if his temperature has risen, or if it the heat he feels was just the bio-bed compensating.

Spock freezes, breathing in loudly. “Doctor, I would strongly suggest you remove your hand.” He hasn’t sounded this stiff since Jim burst onto the bridge and started yelling about lightning storms. But McCoy knows him better now, and there is an undercurrent of fear that wasn’t there before.

Or maybe it had been and he just hasn’t heard it until now.

Jim has gone completely still beneath his touch, eyes snapping open, unfocused and unseeing and somehow Len knows he is still asleep. “ _Please_ ,” he whispers, “ _No_.”

Len wants to move, wants to snatch his hand back from Jim’s face, to smooth the terror out of his voice and fix whatever this is.

He doesn’t think he can fix this.

“ _Please_.” Jim says, “ _not_ _again_.”

He leans back, moves his hand and himself and throws caution into the same black hole the Narada disappeared into.

“Jim.” He can’t catch the fear in his voice before it escapes, tangled in the syllables as he speaks. “Jim, you’re ok, you’re here, Jimmy, wake up, it’s alright.” he repeats himself, over and over, whispers and soft words. Jim blinks, once, eyebrows meeting over his blue, cloudy blue eyes, and then it’s gone.

He blinks again, and his eyes drift shut, and Len doesn’t know what’s going on, but Spock looks sick. 

Spock looks like he knows exactly what’s going on, and Len has never wished he knew someone better all his life. He wishes he could just read him, without asking him why Jim flinched from his touch, why he was begging someone to leave him alone. 

Why it all seemed to start when Vulcan sands faded to stardust.

Instead he has Jim sleeping, calm for now, and Spock, impossible to read beyond apprehension and fear and slow building anger at something only he seems to understand.

* * *

Michael was fascinated by the idea of a mind meld. Perhaps because it provided such a clear divide between her life before, and after, or perhaps because sharing a mind with someone was a sensation that cannot adequately be described in standard terms. 

“Sands across a desert and water over a stream,” he whispered, showing her the psi-points on her face and explaining how the mind-healers at Gol phrased the methods they used.

“That’s poetic,” she said, tracing the points he’d shown her in the mirror, “but it doesn’t tell me much.”

He sat beside her, pale and sharp against the soft roundness of her humanity, and pressed his lips together in the miniscule frown his father wore when even diplomats proved exhausting. “That’s because mind melds are sacred, and dangerous if performed incorrectly. A mind leaves an impression, just like people do when they leave a room. And when done correctly it is no more noticeable or permanent then leaving a room and shutting the door behind you.”

Michael's eyes were wide, and he was unused to having anyone look at him as though he knew all the answers. She never doubted him, even when he doubted himself, and it was - gratifying.

“However, a mind meld that is performed incorrectly, or violently, or when both minds are not completely aware of the consequences, is like” he paused, remembering why Michael was so fascinated with mind melds and how they are done and decided that some warnings were only for those capable of performing them. “Sa-Mehk trained for years and is very well skilled in mind healing.” Michael pursed her lips, drawing her eyebrows down, and that’s all the warning he needed. She did not need him to protect her from this. “but he says that a badly done mind-meld is like a home-invasion.” Violent and dangerous and often deadly.

Painful.

Michael didn’t have to know that.

Apparently, someone thought Jim Kirk didn’t either, despite performing a (very messy) meld with him. 

He’d feared it was in the heat of the moment, his bonds frayed to the point of collapsing after Vulcan - after. All Vulcans learned to read the signs of a meld gone wrong, but these signs are often present in all humans when they are under duress. 

It took him far too long to realize that the echoes he felt when Kirk brushed by him, or handed him a phaser, were not from his own panicked and disorganized mind. 

There was no time between Kirk bursting onto the bridge and beaming over to the Romulan vessel for any of the Vulcans on board to have done...this.

If he concentrates, throws his mind back to when Kirk pushed and pushed and did everything in his power to push Spock over the edge, Kirk’s thoughts were disordered even then. The impression is buried in red, in a rage he does not think was entirely his own, but it’s there - the fraying edges of a mind trying desperately to make order out of another’s chaos.

Someone else was on Delta Vega, someone other than Lt. Cmndr. Keenser, whom they had picked up at Lt. Scott’s request.

A Vulcan.

There is another option. But he is not sure he wants to consider it yet. 

There are other species capable of this, but Spock knows that only a Vulcan could throw his captain into such disarray - given further thought, the fact that he has performed so admirably under this considerable - almost impossible - amount of stress was remarkable in its own right.

Doctor McCoy is still waiting, hand hovering over the Captain’s even as he runs tests on a medical grade tricorder. Spock is unsure how to explain what is wrong.

Mind melds are the closest Vulcans have to superstitions, their status among his species almost sacred, and yet, they are common - parental bonds solidified by calming melds, partners sharing what cannot be spoken, children learning to balance themselves with the help of those around them.

Training begins young and is a lifelong endeavor, and to abuse melding in such a way is unspeakably vile.

He is not responsible for the actions of others, and he knows this, but the irrational, illogical pangs of guilt at what a member of his species has done do not agree. The captain sighs in his sleep, and Doctor McCoy flinches, afraid he’s harmed the captain without knowing.

Clearing his throat feels like an act of war, a dividing line between the slow trust he has been building and the necessity of what he is about to say. He does not think the Doctor will have any faith in his loyalty after this, and he cannot blame him. 

As much as he wants to explain, he knows that this must be a strategic conversation. Too much information will be a distraction, too little will be useless. He is a diplomat's son, surely he can explain an act he has been performing with considerable skill since adolescence.

“There is an explanation for the Captain’s distress, Doctor.” An opening gambit, one which draws McCoy’s attention away from his tricorder. “However it is a complex problem, and I am uncertain as to how, exactly, the Captain would have -”

“Spit it out, Spock, before I run out of patience.” He fidgets with the switches, flipping through the bio-bed options and somehow, while doing all that, has time to glare at Spock from under his eyebrows, hands never very far from the captain’s.

“Have you ever heard of a mind meld, Doctor?” Strategy can only get you so far, he finds, when dealing with others who will not play the game. It is a small mercy, then, that the doctor does not look surprised.

Somehow his eyebrows draw even lower without consuming his eyes entirely, and he nods. “I’ve heard of them, yes. They’re one of your vulcan mental abilities - y’all go poking around in each others heads and pretend that’s a substitute for talkin’.” An inelegant description, if fairly accurate. The captain is still sleeping soundly.

He leans forward, discarding several sentences he knows will simply aggravate the doctor, “Are you aware of the possible side effects of a poorly executed meld?”

He is well aware of Dr McCoy’s skill. How could he not be, after observing the lives saved by his expertise? But he does not expect him to have significant knowledge of a uniquely Vulcan custom. 

He should have known better. 

“Yes. But Jim hasn't displayed any signs of the typical mental degradation, and I'm afraid nightmares are fairly common for hi- for humans. Not to mention he's not had enough contact with any of the Vulcans on board as far as I know for something like that to have happened,” the doctor rattles this off, all the while glaring at the captain’s biobed scans. He sounds as though he wishes to convince himself as well. 

“You are correct. Normally, bad dreams would not be an indication. However, due to my impressions of his mind, coupled with the Captain's reaction to your hand placement, I am forced to consider that this may be the most likely cause for his distress.” McCoy is increasingly agitated, shuffling the tricorder from his left hand to his right, leaning over the captain before turning away again. 

“Impressions of his mind? Explain, Spock.”

He is crumbling. Whether it is due to the doctor's agitated projections, emotions far louder than most humans, or his own weak resolve shifting as the soft trust they had fell away, he is uncertain. But if he does not say this soon, he may never will. 

“On the Narada, the captain and I brushed against each other more than once, and he is apparently a highly empathic individual, much like you.” In fact, most humans were closer to psi-capable then they knew. Nyota’s family had a history of it as well. “I was able to feel the disorder in his mind, a chaos that did not carry his own signature.”

He pauses, uncertain how to continue. 

“So you bumped into his mind and noticed something strange,” the doctor provides, and he nods. “Jim Kirk is brilliant, but he isn't the most stable example of a human mind, Spock. Now don't get me wrong,” he hurries to add, “he's fit for command. I just wouldn't suggest expecting anything _other_ then chaos.” 

The doctor has already switched the tricorder setting to pick up mental waves. Spock wonders who he is trying to convince, who he is trying to keep calm. 

He wonders how McCoy is so calm. 

“So I believed, Doctor, until I gave it further thought. It may be unlikely, but we cannot discount it without further proof.

“There is another possibility.” His voice lowers, half hoping the doctor waves his entire theory away like dust. Instead he raises an eyebrow, inviting him to continue. 

“The first time I noticed Captain Kirk's - that is, when the captain and I.” He's hesitating. There is no room, no time, for hesitation here. “When Captain Kirk returned to the bridge to challenge my decision, I assumed the disorder in his mind was an echo of my own. It is possible that it was, but on a deeper level than I first believed.”

* * *

Spock looks like he’s going to throw up. 

That's the first thing he notices, tearing his attention away from the fucking useless tricorder in his hands. That Spock, increasingly agitated by almost microscopic degrees, blurts out what can be read as a confession and turns as white as a green blooded man possibly could.

He remembers the anger. It would be so easy, so _so_ easy, to fall back on it now. But he doesn't want to. It’s useless, it won’t help them, and as comforting as a good rage will be, it will only leave him empty handed.

“How likely is it that you had enough mental acuity to force a meld, by all accounts an incredibly complex procedure, onto a man who would have been fighting you at every stage. Not to mention you said you were out of control - how successful would a meld be in those circumstances?”

Spock swallows, eyebrows a sharp V at the center of his forehead. “You may be right, Doctor, but how likely is it that he had contact with a Vulcan on Delta Vega? And that is the only time that we can assume he was,” he seems to be at a loss for words, ”attacked.”

“We don’t know if it was an attack, Spock. Hell, we don’t even know if it was a mind meld, or if Jim is reacting to whatever animal messed with his ankle.” 

He didn’t look very comforted. “There is an easy way to confirm that, Doctor.” 

If he understands correctly, Spock is basically accusing himself of not only physically assaulting a superior officer, but also of mentally assaulting him.

No wonder the kid looks like he wants to throw up.

Jim shifts in his sleep, the regen unit dealing with the bruises on his leg beeping angrily. 

“Ok, Mr Spock, let’s say I think we should pursue this matter,” he doesn’t want to admit how much sense it’s starting to make, especially not if Spock keeps insisting he’s the cause. He might only know the man for a coupla days, but the time he hasn't spent angry at him he’s spent noticing how genuinely dedicated he is, to his position, to his crew, and even to his captain, upstart young asshole that he is.

He likes Spock, he does, and any real desire he had to stay angry at him for his own damn convenience faded when he first hovered over his shoulder, offering any help needed in treating Jim.

“Let’s say I consider this an effect from a bad meld. How do you prove that?” Spock fidgets, folding his arms behind his back.

“Under normal circumstances, the meld traces would fade over five hours or so. However, due to the Captain’s weakened state, and his many injuries, it is likely that his mind did not have sufficient time or energy to do so. If it was a ‘bad meld’, as you simplified, the effects would be even more prominent, and leave an easy to read echo, almost a signature.”

“As _I_ simplified? What do Vulcan’s call a bad meld then?” He knows it’s not a relevant question, not really, but he wants to know. Wants to know what about this is freaking Spock out so much.

Spock draws a sharp breath, “Assault, Doctor McCoy. Vulcan’s would call it assault. It is,” he adds quietly, “the closest thing we have to your ‘cardinal sin’.”

“Ok,” he says, running shaking hands through his already rumpled hair, “ok. And how do you plan on finding these ‘echoes’?”

“A simple touch at a pulse point would be sufficient Doctor, a kash-shtaya, a mind brush. However, the Captain is unconscious, and I need consent.” He can’t do this, can’t make this kind of choice, not without more information.

“What’s the equivalent in a psi-null species, Spock? I need to know what I’m letting you do in his head!”

Spock nods, leaning forward, “I can show you, doctor. It is somewhat the Vulcan equivalent to reading facial expressions, combined with eavesdropping on a conversation.” He extends one hand, palm up, asking a question Len isn’t sure he’s ready to answer.

Jim mutters in his sleep again.

“Show me, now.” _W_ _e might be running out of time_ , he doesn’t say. He extends his own hand wrist up, and wonders, almost hysterically, at what a picture they might make, CMO and first officer, fingers against wrist, leaning over the unconscious Captain’s bed.

This is StarFleet though. People need to get used to this level of weird.

He has time to figure this is karma, for all those conversations he’d ‘overheard’ as a kid, before he realizes that something is whispering in his ear.

Except that’s not quite right, cuz it ain’t a whisper as much as a gentle wave, a breeze of emotions, impressions, swift and brief and _order, horror, fear at what he might have done, regret at respect he may have lost_ , and then a gust of calm, projected the most forcefully of them all.

“My apologies, Doctor, my shielding is still not completely rebuilt.” He blinks, realizing at some point he had shut his eyes, and smiles. 

“That’s alright, Mr Spock, you seem remarkably well ordered for a man in your position.”

Spock straightens, hands tucked away behind his back again, and blinks slowly at him, ears flicking back. Like a damn cat. “And you are remarkably well ordered for a human, running a sick bay during a tragedy, with limited supplies and resources.” 

He presses his lips together, maybe upset that he said so much, but Len is a little shocked at how much his praise means.

He clears his throat, fiddling with the tricorder he had discarded, before moving the regen unit to another nasty looking scratch. “Well, Mr. Spock, your assessment was accurate. It’s no more invasive them listening where you shouldn’t. Considering the circumstances, I can consent as Jim’s PCP.”

Spock’s ears are doing that wiggly thing, back and forth, and he thinks it might mean he’s nervous. It sure would make things easier if Spock’s ears keep showing all the emotions he claims not to have.

He doesn’t hesitate, simply leans forward and places two fingers against Jim’s wrist. The whole thing lasts less than two seconds, before Spock straightens up with a soft gasp, holding his breath as he stares over Len's shoulder.

“... fascinating.” He murmurs, eyes unfocused. 

Len might respect the man, might even like him, but really. Was this the time?

“What, Mr Spock?” Spock’s eyes refocus, the pupils slowly shifting back from the narrow slits they'd become, and he looks almost surprised to see him standing there.

In a moment, his face clears and Spock shakes his head rapidly, one hand flicking an invisible bit of dust from the tip of his ear.

Len wonders if he purrs as well. And if he does, how to prove it.

“My apologies, doctor. The Captain's mind is remarkable, and I was not expecting so much direct activity from an unconscious mind.” 

He takes a deep breath. “I was correct, Doctor. Unfortunately.”

He seems at a loss. Len is trying not to lose it, because someone stuck their pretty green fingers into his best friend’s head and swished it around, and also because Spock is clearly not telling him something. Given how ready he was to throw himself under the bus just minutes ago, this is more worrying than it should be. 

“I am. Unsure how to explain this, Doctor McCoy.” He pauses, hands folded again, and Len's starting to think it's a nervous twitch more than an indication of calm. 

“The Captain’s mind contains faint traces, as one would expect after a mind meld, and they are, as suspected, far more prominent then is considered acceptable.”

“However?” McCoy urges, hoping Spock can figure himself out before Len completely loses patience. Pointy-eared kid is cutting it close with all these dramatic pauses.

“However, the traces read more like echoes, which would mean I have been in contact with this mind before.” He presses his lips together, and Len wishes he could snap off an angry one liner like he normally does, but for some reason he can’t. “It is ... an oddly familiar mind.”

“Kirk’s?”

“No. The other. I believe the meld, if it happened, was on Delta Vega, and if my suspicions about his identity prove to be correct, it would explain why I could have mistaken the echoes for my own.”

“Spock. I appreciate your help, and your concern, and everything, but now you’re speaking in riddles and I can't follow.” It comes out sounding more exasperated then he wants it to, but at least it snaps Spock out of whatever odd state he’d slipped into.

His ears are fluttering again, quick little twitches as his eyebrows drop. “My apologies doctor. On the Narada, the ship we encountered that was used to transport the Red Matter was not of Romulan origin. In fact, it was Vulcan, and responded to my voice, by greeting me by name and giving me full access to it’s weapons and systems. Combined with Captain Kirk's insistence that he knew the _only_ correct course of action, and his understanding of what, exactly, would anger me most, it may be posited that he encountered a Vulcan with knowledge of the future on Delta Vega.” McCoy could feel his jaw drop, realizing that as absolutely bullshit insane it all sounded, it still manages to make sense.

“Of course, since we know that the Narada itself came from the future, the idea that another ship may have followed is not absurd. All the evidence suggests that an alternate, future, version of myself is who the Captain encountered.”

Len raises a hand, palm out and face incredulous. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, Spock, but it makes sense. More than that, we have some proof, loosely defined.”

Spock nods, “Indeed, Doctor.” They both stare at Jim’s face, peaceful despite what they’ve learned.

“He should never have attempted it.” Spock’s voice is low, almost a hiss, and McCoy looks up in shock. “He was well aware of the risks, of what he was putting the Captain through. Alone in our universe, no stable bonds, and yet he attempted a meld with an in-experienced human. How irresponsible am I?”

Oh boy. Len isn’t sure how to deal with this weird kind of guilt. It is clear that Spock is angry, at himself, both versions. 

“I’m sure he believed he had no choice, Spock.” And maybe the weirdest thing here is that he’s defending Spock, to well, Spock.

“That is irrelevant, Doctor. If the Captain and Mr Scott were able to beam aboard, no doubt he could have joined them, explaining himself directly to me, and providing himself as proof, instead of claiming there was no other option. Instead of undertaking a meld he was clearly in no condition to perform.”

Spock looks up, eyes dark. Len wants to say something, anything, because as angry Spock is, he thinks he’s directing too much of it at himself. 

“Didn’t need to convince me.” Jim opens one eye, sleep rumpled and cloudy. “I knew what he wanted, Spock.”

Spock looks as unconvinced as he possibly can without shifting a muscle. Len is too busy trying to figure out how long the kid’s been awake, because _since when was he awake_?

“Captain - “

“Spock. We can argue about this, or you can accept what I’m telling you. Whether I understood exactly what he wanted is irrelevant, since I allowed him to make the attempt. Besides, it worked. We saved Earth, can I get a wahoo and whatever.” 

Spock wants to argue, Len can tell. But Jim is slipping back under, body finally figuring out what to fix first instead of just flashing red alert at everything.

“Doctor,” Spock whispers, outrage apparent, “there is no circumstances in which the captain could have understood exactly what would happen. The loss of the planet, and the previous loss of his bonds when he traveled back in time -” He’s never heard a Vulcan sound so horrified, downright pissed in fact. 

“Spock, that’s irrelevant right now.” The Vulcan clicks his mouth shut, ears standing up and away from his head. Looks like he disagrees. “Whether or not it was a violation of Vulcan standards, Jim disagrees with you. You can discuss it later, but right now we need to focus on getting him better.”

* * *

He is angry.

He is unspeakably angry. He is uncertain how much of that anger is directed at himself, and how much at his alternate self.

On an intellectual level, Spock can understand his - other Spock’s - actions. It does not comfort him. It does not excuse the risk, the _selfishness_ of his choice. 

There are a dozen scenarios that he could compose, in these few seconds, that do not involve melding with a human. There is no way he could explain the significance of the act, the importance of knowing how it would feel before, the years Vulcans spent understanding what it could do.

If the Doctor had no more experience than the kash-staya against his wrist, it would be like trying to explain drowning to a man who’d only ever stepped through shallow puddles.

He couldn’t.

And perhaps the Doctor is right. Perhaps it is irrelevant, in the face of what could happen as a result of what was done.

But he is still angry. 

Spock recognizes that much of that anger is misdirected, borrowed from the loss of his planet and the unstable medical condition of his mother, and the frayed bonds that keep tangling in his mind.

But now that he has something to hold onto, he finds it difficult to let it go.

“He needs sleep. And the physical injuries will interfere with his mind's ability to naturally re-order itself. I would suggest remote observation, as the captain will no doubt refuse to remain in sickbay for something that would not interfere with his ability to help the repair and running of the ship.”

McCoy chews on his bottom lip, a curious human habit Nyota shared. “Any physical signs I should be looking out for? Fever, hallucinations?” 

“No, not at this point. There may have been, but I suspect the Captain attributed them to his lack of sleep and the _multitude_ of other injuries he sustained and did not seek treatment for. As of now, and from what I could sense, there may be more vivid than usual dreams, a slower recovery time, and difficulty concentrating uninterrupted for long periods. I would suggest finding one of the healers aboard and asking for a consult, as they are trained to determine far more from a simple kash-shtaya then I am.”

He draws a breath, loud against the beeping of the bio-bed. “Doctor, I cannot explain the significance of this act to you. I cannot provide the history behind it, the skill necessary to perform it, or the amount of pain borrowed memories can cause.”

Doctor McCoy is looking at him with a kind of pity, and he does not know how to understand these men who have every reason not to trust him and yet they _do._

“I can only offer my assistance, however inexpert, as needed.” It would be logical to remain here, to be certain the captain was, indeed, recovering. 

Dr. McCoy glances up from his tricorder, perhaps trying to find what more he can fix while the captain sleeps. The regen in his hands beeps softly, indicating that what can be fixed is done, and it seems that at least 70% of the area is healed.

There is still only so much modern medicine can do.

The Doctor sighs, a brief huff of frustration he can feel across the bed, “So, we know what’s wrong, and we know we can’t fix it, and what we can fix has been fixed. I think we’re done here Mr. Spock.” 

He folds his arms behind him, uncertain he’s willing to leave. Not entirely certain he can.

“Is there anything else you require assistance with, Doctor?” 

Doctor McCoy looks up, arms folded over his chest and eyebrows dancing in the oddest display of human expression he can recall.

“Have you gotten a medical license while I wasn’t looking Mr. Spock?” He stiffens, unsure of the tone or position McCoy has placed him in. There is so much dangerous ground between them, some of it 5’4” and shockingly blonde.

“Seeing as I have been helping with the Captain’s injuries, it is apparent you do not require medical licensure from your assistants. Besides, that is irrelevant, I was referring to the equipment that was damaged, as I am sure your medical abilities will not help with the repairs.”

Perhaps there is _too_ much unequal ground between them. Perhaps he has been pressing to much.

McCoy sighs again, annoyingly human and honest and Spock is unsure if the day is too long or if he is not Vulcan enough to deal with the emotions floating by. “That’s not what I meant, Mr. Spock, and I apologize. I forgot that Vulcans don’t do teasing the way I’m used to.” he smiles, and the hours are heavy on both their shoulders. “I appreciate all that you’ve done here, and your assistance with the captains injuries was invaluable. I never would have understood what to look for on my own. 

“And while we could use your help with the repairs, Scott promised me a team of engineers a while ago. Right now I’d rather you sleep, so that I don’t have to deal with another collapsin’ officer.” 

Spock blinks, aware that his ears have curled inward again. “I understand, Doctor, however - “

“ _\- However_ , I will listen to the logical advice of my CMO and get some sleep instead of trying to prove my worth and usefulness by single handedly repairing every machine in medbay.” the Doctor interrupts him with a scowl he is beginning to recognize as fake, and mutters something about how _now there’s two of them, damn it_.

Fascinating.

He squints, “are you even qualified for those repairs, Spock, you’re a science officer dammit, not an engineer!”

He needs to meditate, he realizes as the very edges of his mouth turn upward, and it appears that the doctor has the situation well in hand.

Perhaps he should listen.

* * *

He doesn’t want to turn away Spock’s help. And it’s not even that he doesn’t need it, it’s that he can see the exhaustion bleeding over his shoulders and onto the points of his eyebrows, dipping slowly lower.

There’s a stiffness to his shoulders that Len wants to smooth away because he’s too tired to keep that ‘proper Vulcan’ ice in his eyes and he looks too damn young to feel this guilty.

That’s the truth, more than his personal feelings on the matter.

Even if there is another Spock out there, from the future or whatever, it’s not the same Spock that’s standing on the other side of the bio-bed, hands folded neatly behind his back again. 

“If that will be all then, Doctor.” It’s not a question, and Spock is turning away before he can react.

How he always manages to find the martyrs he isn’t sure, but he’s spent far too long with Jim not to know what’s up.

Spock has decided all of this is his fault, maybe all the way to Vulcan itself, and it would take a lot more time then he has now to convince him otherwise. 

He can start though.

“Wait!” he leans forward, as far into Spock’s space as cultural norms and the bio-bed can allow, and Spock turns, instinctively leaning in to meet him.

“You do know this isn’t your fault.” He’s phrased it wrong, he knows he has, because framing it like a question leaves too much room for doubt. He can hear Jim in his head, muttering about how _he can’t possibly know that_ , and it terrifies him how similar these two are in that aspect.

Lord help him when they start working together outside a crisis.

“This,” he gestures over his shoulder, “may have been done by someone called Spock, but I'm sure there are plenty of crimes committed by people called Leonard. I’m not about to take responsibility for all of them.” 

Spock undoubtedly gets his eyes from his mother, in the few minutes she had them open Len could see that. There’s so much buried there he can’t wrap his head around the idea he’d ever thought Vulcans were emotionless at all.

That and the way his ears and eyebrows keep emoting for him.

“Good night, Doctor,” Spock says, low and soft and he pretends there’s nothing else to say. 

For now, there isn't. 

But there’s plenty to do, and he makes a list while watching Spock leave medbay, back straight and arms folded.

It’s definitely a tell. 

Christine hovers over, handing him the reports on the c-bay patients to read while she reviews the tricorder readings on Jim.

“Looks like our wonder-boy is doing better.” she smirks, knowing full well that he’d have the medbay at red-alert if it was anything else. 

“Yep. Turns out our pointy eared first officer is a better nurse than you are Chris.” She hits him over the head with the tricorder, maybe a little harder than necessary, and laughs. 

“Maybe, but I’m the one who fixed the coffee maker, Lenny.” She’s still laughing when he does an about face, single mindedly heading for the tiny little replicator in the corner that fuels the entire damned ship.

His shift isn’t long, but he still has time to check on the patients, adjusting the IV that feeds Gaila’s skin so her burns will heal faster. 

Orion skin is tricky; it’s a lucky thing they found her when they did. There had been a few scattered Kelvin Pods they passed and picked up on their crawl back to the Sol system. 

M’Benga gathers reports on the Vulcans they had aboard and compiles a list of names for SFC. There are so many tiny details he’s never really considered when dealing with a large scale non-human crisis, from the room temperature adjustments to the medications they would need more or less of.

He has Geoff set up a list of recommendations for the rescue and relief ships, sending that off to StarFleet Med before he does anything else.

By the time his rounds are done and he has sent a few stubborn holdouts off to bed, ignoring their pointed suggestions that he do the same, five hours pass and Jim’s ribs are ready for another round of regen.

He also needs to check that the animal bite isn’t festering or full of slow acting toxins.. Heaven knows they don’t need another disaster.

Everyone looks younger when they’re sleeping. It’s something he noticed the first time he interned at a hospital, all of 21 and terrified of doing something wrong.

Course, you get over that quick, or you get out.

Jim looks like a little kid when he’s asleep, eyelashes soft against his cheeks and the crinkles in his eyes smoothed out.

If he were being honest, which he can mostly afford now, he likes it better when Jim is awake, alive in a whirlwind of too much sound. Jim sleeping is too quiet, an unnatural state of being for someone as bright as he usually is. 

The regen beeped, letting him know that Jim’s ribs are gonna have to finish up the rest on their own. 80% healed is pretty good for a guy as beat up as Jim was; he hadn’t expected more then 75.

“I know you’re awake, you infant.” He’s learned to read that pretty early on, when Jim used to crash on the couch of his dorm rooms. There was the slightest hitch between breaths when Jim was faking it, something you only noticed when you stuck around for awhile. 

Sam seemed surprised when he mentioned it. 

He should have realized something was wrong earlier when Jim woke up without changing his breathing. He should have realized something was wrong half a dozen twitchy Jim-specific signs ago, but he hadn’t, and here they are. 

Anyways, none of them dead yet. He’ll take it.

Jim cracks an eye open, blue eyes reflecting the soft overhead lights. “Hey Bones.”

That's it. No ‘I'm sorry I almost killed myself overworking’. No ‘I'm sorry I lied when you asked what happened on Delta Vega’. No ‘Im sorry’.

Oddly enough, he's glad. Jim only apologizes for being sick when he's _actually_ sick, preferring to pretend illnesses never happened at all once he recovers. 

“Glad you're feeling better, Jim.” He adjusts the hypo, handing him the tricorder so that he can see the readings for himself. 

Jim doesn't flinch when the hypo hits his neck, just scrolls further down the report and itches a shiny, just healed scrape on his side. So he's doing better, but not 100% yet. 

Christine hands him another hypo, this one with pain meds, and sets the privacy shield-curtains up as she leaves. The glare she throws over her shoulder is louder then anything she could've said, and sometimes he wishes she didn't know him quite so well.

“Jim.” He doesn't really know how to start this conversation, the databanks only giving him so much on mind-melds and their after effects. 

“Jim, we need to talk.” 

“Yeah, we do. You promised this foot brace thing would come off my ankle before I left medbay.” The problem with Jim Kirk, he decides through the red haze that drops over his eyes, is that he's an absolutely infuriating example of Midwestern idiocy. 

“Get your hands off that boot, you _dunsel_. If you think I'm letting you out of medbay just because you slept for five hours -” he slaps Jim's hands away from the med-brace, gently, because the kid had managed to cut those up, too, and the cuts were too small to register on the regen he'd been using. 

“Seven hours, Bones. I've been in medbay seven hours.” Jim raises an eyebrow at him, waving the tricorder in his face and he really should have seen this coming. 

“I have no idea how long you were sleeping while Spock was here, so those two hours don't count.” He snatches the tricorder away from him, ignoring the ridiculous pout and the fidgety hands. 

He should have realized Jim would try to distract him.

“Speaking of Spock.” Jim's been tense for the last three days or so, wound tighter than a thoroughbred, but the set of shoulders still gives him away. He's forcing himself to relax. 

“He has an interesting theory about that Vulcan you met on Delta Vega.” 

He can't push this very far. And he won't, he really won't, but his best friend is tired and beaten and _scared_ , because someone dropped the world down on his shoulders and told him to fucking lift. 

He doesn't _want_ to push this very far, he realizes. It's not that it isn't his place, it's that he's the only one who realizes what this really _meant_. 

He's the only one on this cursed ship that knows Jim as well as he does. Gaila might have helped, if she was awake, and Uhura is always, somehow, the most calming presence he's ever met, but that's not what Jim needs. 

He’s known Jim for three years now and in all that time he’s only ever learned what Jim wanted to show, taking tiny bits of information about his childhood and family and accepting them for what they were. He’s not ashamed, Len knows that, and he’s not hiding. It’s just that he takes what little privacy, what little respect the universe has given him and guards it fanatically. To let someone into his mind … he can’t be dealing with that as well as he thinks he is.

Jim is very pointedly not staring at him. There's a fascinating bit of wall behind him apparently, and it takes all his control not to turn around dramatically and ask if there's a ghost. 

There probably is one, but only Jim can see it. 

“Jim.” He telegraphs every move he's about to make, looks Jim in the eyes, and he can still feel him flinch when he places a hand on his arm. 

When Len was ten years old he went swimming down the river with a dozen cousins of assorted sizes and intelligence. They’d managed to get swept over a waterfall when the rapids took the inner tubes they were using by surprise, getting dunked into the cold lake at the bottom like so many apples.

Getting to know Jim Kirk felt the same way sometimes. He thinks he understands what's gonna happen next, and suddenly it's 3 am on a Tuesday and he's hacking into the government file on the medical practices of a non-federation planet. 

It just hits him sometimes, and he's learned to let it carry him where it's gonna go. 

But right now Jim's got tears in his eyes and he doesn't know how to tell him it's ok. He doesn't even know if it is. All he knows is that the rapids in this stretch of river feel endless, and that when they do hit that waterfall it’s gonna be something else.

“I wasn't lying. To make Spock feel better, or whatever.” Jim's eyes slide to the right again, as if he's in a confessional and this is his attempt at forgiveness. 

Len doesn't know what he needs to be forgiven for. 

“I know what a mind meld is. I let him in, Bones.” 

He gets it, then, with the way Jim is twisting the sheet between his fingers and swinging his feet over the side of the bed. 

It's not a confession. It's a penance, an absolution, it’s Jim on his knees begging for someone, _anyone_ , to tell him he deserved it. 

Len doesn't need to do more than lean forward, lean into him, and suddenly they're half tangled off the bed, Jim’s chin fitting perfectly over his collarbone and hands twisting into the back of his shirt. 

He's shaking. Jim's _shaking_. 

“It's ok,” he says. Like a fool. Jim Kirk is crying, slow little hiccups into his chest, and nothing about this is ok. “It's ok,” he whispers into his hair, which sticks up everywhere and smells, unfairly, of apples. 

He thinks, then, that if Earth would have to be sacrificed to avoid this, he might make that choice.

“It wasn't enough. I let him in and it wasn't enough, _why am I never enough_ , Bones, why can I never save them -” he's never hated the fact that he is monolingual so much, as Jim’s speech devolves into some combination of sobbing Yiddish and whisper shouting Vulcan, while he twists Len's blue shirt around and around. 

He can't do anything but hold him, rocking slowly, and whisper. 

“It's ok. You did good, kid, I promise, it's ok.” 

He almost wishes Spock were here, since maybe he'd have some perfectly logical way to prove that Jim had done everything possible to save what he could.

“The other me would have done it.” 

“What-” He pulls away from Jim, slowly, and looks him in the red rimmed eye, lashes clumpy and curled under the tears “- _the fuck_ does that even mean, Jim.” 

Jim sniffles, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his palms, and mutters. As if Len is gonna let that go. 

“What the hell did that Vulcan show you?!” They needed to call him something, eventually, if only for clarity's sake. No way is he having two Spocks running around. 

Especially if one of them has such _magnificently_ low impulse control. 

“His world, Bones. He knew a Jim Kirk that was,” Jim smiles, eyes hazy, and it was clear the effects of the meld hadn't completely worn off, “ _Apollo_ , he was amazing. Smart and nice and he didn't do dumb shit just to prove he could.”

“Sounds boring, honestly. Did he drive a car off a cliff and get his Ma to help him repair it?”

Len doesn't let go of Jim's shoulders, rubbing soft circles over the muscles with his thumbs, letting everything he feels wash over him and away. This isn’t the time for his anger, with Jim leaning back into him, slowly, cheek over his heart. 

“He knew his Dad. He knew George. That's what the Narada changed. One tiny thing, and Jim Kirk is a fuckup.” He sniffles again, and Len wants to punch someone. 

He's not actually particular whom.

“You aren't a fuck up, clearly, since Earth is still mostly in a single piece. And losing your dad isn't a tiny thing, you idiot, that's a big thing. That's a really heck’n big thing.” 

There are still tears running down Jim's face, eyes wide with whatever memories the Old Spock lent him to save the world with. The fact that it worked doesn't make it any better. 

“It hurt, Bones. It hurts.” Jim's tucks into him again, not shaking, at least. He can't remember the last time Jim told him something hurts. 

He can't help but be angry that this time it’s something he can't fix. 

  


* * *

Spock takes the long way to his quarters, avoiding the rush between shifts and hardly noticing the view outside the corridor observation windows. He finds that Nyota fell asleep, waiting for him. There is incense burning in the corner, a particular flavour she said reminded her of home.

He wonders how much of her decision to come here was for his comfort, and how much was for her own. It doesn’t matter, curled up in his bed with her hair spread over the pillow, she forcibly reminds that despite everything that happened, despite everything he did (and would do, perhaps, in some uncertain future) there are still people who will stand with him.

Or, more accurately, will steal his pillow.

The Doctor’s words are an echo now, one he will examine at a later time when he is not losing the small control he has over his sfekali-kaya. The twitching is common when Vulcans overexert themselves.

He is asleep before he can center himself for meditation, hands resting on his knees, legs folded beneath him. It has been a long time since he was this exhausted.

  
They eat breakfast in his rooms, preferring each other’s company to the crowded, half damaged, mess hall. It is easy, to be around someone who knows him, has seen him, and yet has no expectations. 

It is also inconvenient, when there is a problem he is uncertain how to detangle and she can read it in every movement he does not make. 

“So are you going to talk to them?” she asks, sipping from his tea.

He does not answer, preferring to take his cup back with a raised eyebrow. Nyota rolls her eyes and hands it to him over the omelette she has half finished, placing it in his palm without letting go.

“There are so many things I can't help you fix, Spock, and there are so many things I can’t understand about what you’ve lost. But I can still recognize the crease between your eyebrows, _and_ what it means, so if there’s someone who’s put it there between the hours I saw you and now, perhaps you should try and speak to them?”

He understands the importance of council. He always has. But he appreciates the blunt method humans prefer over the not-lies and half riddles Vulcans use. 

Whether or not he believes the captain’s assurance that he chose to meld with his...Elder Counterpart is irrelevant until he has had time to properly review the incident with him. 

For his own peace of mind he decides to resolve that as soon as possible.

The captain should still be in medbay, and Nyota requests to accompany him, hopeful that her Orion friend is perhaps awake.

They meet Sarek while walking, rested and yet still winding his tangled bonds apart. They are almost at the Med-bay, Nyota a quiet presence over his shoulder, as his father greets him steadily. 

He walks with them, turning to Uhura and murmuring as an afterthought, “Rikodikau sfekalik kaluklar t'ish-veh k'”. 

It is gratifying, perhaps, that his Father is so comfortable with his choice in friends that he can remark on his son’s state to them, and the smile Nyota hides behind her hand is a bright spot against the shattered doorway of the medbay.

He does wish, however, that his ears would stop. It is enough that he must, at some point, confront his captain over the possible crime against his person, and he does not need the added pressure of knowing his emotions may be betrayed by this childish tic.

“T’Pau’s ears have not ceased in their movements as well. It appears that the control so carefully cultivated by our people may be lax in this time.”

Spock blinks. Sarek has never been one to so blatantly comfort him, no matter what his personal feelings on the matter may be.

It appears his mother was correct, and over time he has become ‘fed-up’ with the high council’s sometimes arbitrary insistence on complete emotional denial, as opposed to control.

They pause at the med-bay doors, his father raising a ta’al and nodding to the nurses he passes as he makes his way to Amanda’s bed. She is improving, the doctors say, but an unconscious human has no presence in a bond. It is disconcerting, to see her there, and yet feel nothing more then the faintest hum of her presence.

Nyota brushes the back of his hand, projecting as much peace as she can gather, and goes directly to Lt. Vro’s bedside. She mentioned that she would not visit the captain until she knew he was fully healed.

Apparently she did not think he wanted anyone to see him so weak.

Spock makes no such assumptions. Had the captain shown any such behavior the previous evening, he would avoid him now, but he did not.

No doubt Nyota had a different relationship with Captain Kirk, having spent several years with him at the academy. 

Doctor McCoy is hovering, setting the bio-bed to different readings and muttering with increasing annoyance over what appears to be the perfect numbers before him.

“Hello, Mr. Spock, I don’t suppose you know how to check if a bio-bed’s been tampered with, now do you?”

The captain appears to be sleeping, and yet McCoy waves a hand over his face, addressing him as though he was awake. “You hear me, infant? If I find out you messed with the bed to get out of here, I’m finding a sedative that won’t kill you.” 

At that the Captain opens one eye, smirking with half his mouth and looking far too mischevious for a man who had practically collapsed under his injuries not more than seven hours ago. Spock wonders if Captain Kirk is really so careless of his own health as to try and escape proper medical care.

Or to allow strangers into his mind so casually.

The doctor throws a very significant glare over his shoulder, one the captain seems to be pointedly ignoring, and wanders off in search of a tricorder. 

Captain Kirk tosses his legs over the side of the bed, hands twisting the sheets in his lap into patterns that hold no meaning.

“I trust you are feeling better, Captain?” As conversations go, there is most likely no pleasant way to begin this one.

The Captain grins, a sharp edged expression that has corners he cannot read. “Well, my ribs aren't grinding together anymore so I’m gonna go with a resounding, yes, Mr. Spock. How’s the ship?”

The Ship. Spock has not served with many captains before, preferring to follow Captain Pike on his transfers, but he has spoken to more than a dozen of them. It is always _My Ship_ , _Our Ship_ , a declaration of ownership and trust, an almost reverent acknowledgment of the importance a vessel has to those who live aboard. There is an odd sense of camaraderie, of faith and reliance among species when it comes to their ships.

He is unsure why Captain Kirk is so careful to separate himself from the one he risked his life to help repair. 

“Our ship is performing admirably. Repairs are ahead of schedule and Mr. Scott reports that all the replicators are back online, as well as the auxiliary power reserves.” He can feel his sfekali twitch in curiosity. He is clearly not as rested as he thought. “He seemed very insistent that you be told, was that a concern?”

The captain shrugs, the movement far smoother than it had been before. “A crew that doesn’t need to worry about food or resources is a crew that performs at its best, Mr. Spock. I suppose I may have emphasized its importance a bit too much to Scotty.”

Vulcans do not have the gene for blue eyes. It is rare even to find hazel eyed Vulcans, and so there is a certain fascination among his people for blue eyes. There is no climate on Vulcan - there _was_ no climate on Vulcan where that coloring would give someone an advantage.

Captain Kirk’s eyes are unusual even among humans, he understands. There is something paralyzing to having his eyes on you, the full weight of his intellect and rapid, almost chaotic thought process sizing you up.

He has gained a deeper understanding of the man who would become his captain since the cadet stood opposite him in the academy hall.

He thinks he may be a better officer for it.

The Captain is still eyeing him, shoulders tense under his standard black shirt. “I suppose there’s other things you wish to discuss.” 

Even he can read the forced lightness in the captain's voice, the way his eyes suddenly slide to the left and the temperature in the room stays the same, yet seems to drop.

He does wish to discuss the circumstances of the meld, the actions which he deems unforgivable and that the Captain accepts as consensual and necessary.

Yet he cannot, in good conscience, force this conversation, however important he thinks it may be. 

“There are many things I wish to discuss, Captain. None of them are urgent in any way.” Vulcans are very good at bending the truth. As he is under medical observation and is clearly recovering, technically it is not urgent.

He is being studied, sharp eyes darting over him, and he projects as much calm, unbotheredness as he can find.

“I appreciate that Spock, but you don’t need to lie to me.” 

“Vulcan’s do not lie, Captain.” The small bark of laughter this prompts from the captain is unexpected. Apparently he understands the cultural differences which make that statement true as well. 

“Of course you don’t. Obscuring the truth is illogical, and Vulcans are never willfully illogical.” There is a twist to the captain’s words he is unsure he can detangle with what little information he has now. But before he can make an attempt, Kirk interrupts him, cutting off whatever platitude he was going to settle on. 

“You believe that … Elder Spock, let’s call him, forced a mind meld on me, correct?” The sheets between his hands strain, and if the Captain keeps twisting them they will tear, despite being supposedly indestructible.

Much like Vulcan control, something else the Captain seems to repeatedly destroy.

“I do, Captain, however this has nothing to do with your own intellect or understanding of the situation.” Captain Kirk snorts, an inelegant yet effective human expression of disagreement, and he does not know how to explain this to him.

It is impossible, actually. He remembers Michael, scared but fascinated, and wonders if he should attempt to do so. Wonders if he can impress the importance of its history, it’s controversy, it’s almost sacred status among his people.

The captain believes he understands. Spock does not. How can he explain _why_ without making it sound as though he is treating the Captain like a child?

Telepathically, humanity is still in a childlike stage. Enough ability to sit at the table, yet not enough to have a say.

If wishing were logical he would wish they had no ability at all. It would make this infinitely simpler, as Elder Spock would never have attempted a meld at all.

“Captain, I believe you.” Captain Kirk raises a single eyebrow, looking very much like Michael when he was about to say something she found ridiculous. “I believe that based on your knowledge of mind melds and their effects, you made an informed decision to accept ‘Elder Spocks’ attempt at melding.”

“However you do not believe I had all the information truly necessary to make such a decision, and that the Elder Spock was aware of those circumstances at the time.”

He shifts, aware that his ears are once again betraying him. “Precisely.”

Captain Kirk frowns, no longer strangling the sheets between his fingers and instead smoothing them down in steady circles.

“Have you ever melded with a human, Spock?” It is not a question he expects, but one he can answer, at least. 

“I have, Captain.” 

There is still a small frown between his eyes as he chews thoughtfully at his bottom lip. Human facial expressions are loud, a fact that is useful in this conversation, perhaps, but disconcerting everywhere else. 

“And how did you prepare them for that?” 

“I showed them multiple Vulcan descriptions, documents, and histories regarding the context, and we built up slowly to a full meld, starting with a kash-shtaya, and slowly allowing more mental presence as they felt ready.” He can recall the first time he brushed against a human mind that was not his sister’s.

He had foolishly assumed that the vibrance, the intensity of Michael’s mind was unique to her. In a sense he was correct, but it appears that all humans are inclined to being loud, in every aspect of their being.

“No wonder you didn’t believe me at first.” Kirk smiles, finally discarding the tortured sheets as he leans forward. “Spock, I have known Vulcans before. Not just at the academy, but as a child. And while I might not have had the detailed knowledge you provided to your friend, I was aware, on some perhaps lesser, but still adequate scale, of what to expect.”

He wants very much to believe him. He wants to trust that no matter the future, he would never willingly hurt the captain in such an avoidable way. 

“A kash-shtaya is a, it’s like a mind touch, right?” the frown is back, a small crease between the captains eyes.

“Pardon, Captain?” he blinks, and can feel his ears twitch forward, resolutely ignoring the way the captain’s eyes light up every time they do. A small price to pay then, for his dignity.

He blinks again as Captain Kirk offers his wrist, palm up, eyebrows raised expectantly. “It’s the least invasive form of mental connection your species has, and you clearly need some more convincing. Go on then.”

“It is not invasive at all, Captain, it is simply the first step in acclimating a psi-receptive being to the differences between telepathic communication and verbal.” 

He waves his wrist around, wiggling his eyebrows in a ridiculous manner. “Well then, you need reassurance, I need to convince you, and my wrist is somehow the least damaged part of me.”

Spock’s mouth twitches as he leans forward. “Very well, Captain.”

It is sudden, the chaos of Jim Kirk’s mind, bright and loud and yet somehow peaceful, as though everything has its place, and he could find it, if he so desired, but the map he would need is written in a language he does not speak and could not learn.

Whispers of _content_ , of _respect_ and _admiration_ and a desire to simply _see everyone safe_ are what come to him first.

There is regret, and also understanding. Pain, and memories he recognizes through muddy water, and under it all a conviction that he did what he could, what was _right_ , and he still wasn’t _enough, wasn’t enough, wasn’t_ -

“Regret is a curious emotion, wouldn’t you agree Mr. Spock?” Captain Kirk is rubbing his wrist, an instinctive reaction he is familiar with, wearing a grin he can only describe as _rueful_.

“Did you get what you were looking for?”

“In a sense, Captain.” he says, still unsure of the tangle in his Captain’s mind, only that he is telling the truth. 

“Please call me Jim when we aren’t on the bridge, Spock.” His eyes slide to the left again, and Spock remembers that Captain Pike is currently in the private room behind them. 

To the left of them.

“What did you mean by ‘regret’, Cap - Jim.” He can only have one conversation at a time. 

“Captain Jim, I like that one. I mean that, viewed unbiasedly, my actions over the last few days, while effective, were a bit...excessive. Cruel, almost.” 

He would interrupt, argue that necessity breeds behavior that we would otherwise not consider, but he thinks that is precisely the captain’s - Jim’s point.

“And while I regret many things, I would, probably, given the same knowledge and the same amount of time, do the same thing again.

“I regret many things, my behavior towards you and my manipulation of your grief most of all. But the three second decision I made to accept his offer of a mind meld is not one of them, Spock. You can be angry, if you so choose. I am angry as well. After all, there were many options, and this was simply the easiest. But that anger will not help me. And it certainly won’t help you.”

He does not know how to respond to this. 

“I owe you an apology, Mr Spock, but I don’t know if I can give it to you. I would most likely do it again, as it was the most concise path between two points I needed to follow, but I do wish there had been another, better way.”

“Kaiidth.” He settles on. “What is, is.”

Jim smiles. It is a crooked thing, unlike the grin he shows when command insists on yet another report, another reassurance that the crew is doing their best. It is honest.

“You accepted the mind meld as a necessary action to save Earth, and upon examining your own actions believe they are parallel to the decisions ‘Elder Spock’ made as _he_ believed it necessary to enlist your help.” 

Jim avoids his eyes again, focusing on the small hole he has finally worried through the sheets. “I manipulated your emotions in an excessively cruel way, Spock. I knew, however brief the time I had to prepare, what was going to happen. I’m upset, perhaps, that I needed to open my mind to a stranger, but I knew what was coming. You had no idea.”

Fascinating. The human ability to vilify oneself is endlessly frustrating. He hopes Michael and his captain never meet during a crisis, no doubt they would take responsibility for the whole affair somehow. 

“A ridiculous assumption Captain, seeing as while you may have childishly tried to provoke me, I had so little control as to try and kill you for it. Besides, you were correct, and therefore, as you say, regret is a funny emotion.”

“Going in circles, aren’t we Spock?” Jim is grinning again, and he can admit that its is pleasing, to see his captain smile because of something he said.

However strange and derailed the conversation has become.

“I apologize for my actions, despite how expected they may have been.”

Jim raises an eyebrow, perhaps relieved that Spock has accepted his explanation of the events, perhaps amused at his apology. 

“And now I _know_ we’re going in circles, Spock, let it be. I think we’ve established that the last three days have been fraught with poor decisions and unnecessary dramatics that somehow culminated in the saving of Earth and defeat of our mortal, yet hitherto unknown, enemy.”

Spock can feel his eyebrows rise ever higher as Jim continues to elaborately describe what could have been summed up with, ‘Shit Happens, we’re good’. No doubt Jim is doing this on purpose.

“Indeed.” He can hear Nyota whispering to Nurse Chapel over his shoulder. “Lt. Uhura was concerned that you collapsed yesterday, perhaps you could re-assure her that you are, as you said, completely fine.” Jim scans his face, understanding something he is unsure how else to convey, and nods.

“Of course, Mr Spock. I’m sure Bones has an update for you regarding your mother’s condition.”

There’s still much that they’ve left unsaid, but maybe that is better, for now. He wanders off after brushing gently against Nyota’s wrist, assuring her that the Captain, despite her apparent previous experiences, is open to her company. 

Dr. McCoy is hovering over a large re-gen unit, the kind used for Surgeries and large internal injuries that thankfully Jim avoided. It appears it has not charged properly, as the Doctor is cursing it, and it’s parentage, under his breath.

“So, Mr. Spock, has Jim reassured you that all the mess in his mind is his own?” McCoy slaps the cover of the re-gen unit one last time, growling over his shoulder at it as he turns to face Spock.

“Yes, Doctor, although the Captain’s mind is not as disordered as you imply.”

For some reason Dr. McCoy seems amused at this, chuckling slowly as he runs another report on the padd he had tucked into his pocket. 

“Go figure, Spock. And the pain?”

He is not surprised that the Doctor is aware of the pain Jim is in. He would not be surprised if the Captain shared details with him that he was not comfortable sharing with his temporary second in command.

“Indeed, it appears that pain is related to the content of the memories shared, and not the circumstances of the meld itself. No doubt you might call this a dutch comfort.” Dr. McCoy frowns, closing the padd and looking up.

“Has he told you anything about that?”

“No.”

“Yeah, he hasn’t told me much either.” The Doctor has very expressive eyebrows. Spock wonders if he is even capable of lying, or if he is inevitably betrayed by his facial expressions.

“Did you think about what I said?” 

There are many things the doctor has said to him over the last few days, some more complementary than others. He does not need to guess at which the doctor is asking about, the concerned crease between his eyebrows dipping lower than Spock thought possible, when it did not concern the captain.

“I had time to meditate briefly on your advice.” It was not untrue, as the brief time between sleep and wakefulness was traditionally referred to as unconscious meditation, but the proper human term would have been to say he had ‘slept on it’. He had never been overly reliant on human terms, especially not for conversations such as these.

“Oh?” It is impressive how much emotion humans can put into the smallest of words, how much they can convey without the use of eyebrows or ears or the soft silver bonds Vulcans shared with almost everyone in their constant circle. The doctor has managed to turn that singular syllable into an invitation, a question, concerned curiosity, and an acceptance of whatever he chooses to say next.

Fascinating. 

“I believe you are mostly correct, and that I am not responsible for the actions of this Other, Elder Spock.”

He sees the steady process of McCoy’s mind, parsing through the sentence. He is pleased at first, and then annoyed, and finally circles back to the concern he has practically been radiating ever since Cadet-soon-to-be-Captain Kirk burst onto the bridge with little respect for ceremony or rank.

“Hold that thought, Mr. Spock, cuz for a second I thought I’d gotten through that vulcan-dense skull of yours. Only _mostly_ correct?” The doctor often tries to mask his genuine concern with annoyance, rough and tumbling from behind the scowl that currently twists his features. It does not work as well as he thinks it does.

“Yes. I am not responsible for the choices this Other Spock has made, or the decisions he believed to be unavoidable. However, someday, I might be.”

The doctor purses his lips, bouncing forward on his toes in a constant upwards motion, a sedentary version of pacing that he finds oddly distracting. Spock can feel his ears twitching steadily with every motion.

“I didn’t think you Vulcans did transparency, Mr. Spock, and I appreciate your efforts.” McCoy does not smile, it would be forgiving to even call it a smirk, but the corners of his mouth tick upwards and the green in his eyes brightens. “But at least you know what to do about it now.”

Vulcans have been known to have conversations without speaking a word, twitching their eyebrows and tilting their ears and pushing emotions, reactions, through their communal bonds. He does not realize he has done so until the doctor answers the question he did not ask, but rather quirked an eyebrow and felt it, and inexplicably assumed the doctor would understand. 

The fact that Dr. McCoy did surprises him less than the fact that he had subconsciously attempted it.

“Do better,” the Doctor says, answering Spock. “Right now, you believe that in some possibly unnameable future you may have to make the same choices, face the same decisions you’ve so strongly condemned. So _do better_ , and choose another way.” he thumbs the controls on his tricorder almost reflexively, leaning forward. 

“But hopefully the timelines gone screwy enough that it’ll never happen at all. After all, you have decades to warn Romulus, to find a solution, to avoid the whole twisted mess in the first place. No reason to rely on someone else's idea of fate.”

Spock blinks, realizing that he has been treating time as a linear ideal when every revelation over the last week or so proved that to be an error. Proof that time travel exists is out there, and most likely wears his face. 

His cousin Elizabeth would be amused.

“A fair point.” Dr. McCoy smiles, a genuine grin this time, and it is perhaps not as blinding as the Captains, not as warm as Nyota’s, but it is comforting, nonetheless.“I should thank you, doctor. It is always gratifying to know that one’s logic has not become incomprehensible in an attempt to avoid responsibility.”

He shifts, noticing his father's fingers on his mothers wrist, the Captain and Nyota laughing at something one of them has said. A future that may never come to pass does not need to occupy his thoughts. There is plenty here that needs his attention.

“I believe you mentioned that the regen-unit has been malfunctioning. Perhaps I can assist.”

* * *

Len has always believed in things he can see, or feel. 

Like the way reality shifts around certain people, rooms growing silent when they enter and stars shining a little brighter when they’re around. The way people can start out the worst of enemies and still risk their lives to help each other, still throw themselves into the fire because the frying pan is only ever safe for a little while.

The way people, for all their flaws and differences, are never so much the same as when they look up at the stars.

It’s a weird four months, between repairing the ship and finishing classes they no longer had any use for and wondering if the admiralty could recover from the PR disaster that is their lives now.

Or maybe it’s a PR dream, he can’t be sure. They always look halfway to an aneurysm either way.

It takes a few weeks, with all the excitement of a blown up ship and a missing warp core, for Jim to make a full recovery. There are a few days where no matter what he does he feels out of step, like the drumbeat in his head has finally picked up the pace while the rest of him is still marching to something else.

It’s a relief, when Jim finally looks over during one of the thousands of hot-air speeches they endure and winks, crooked grin and all, instead of just being lost in his own head.

In someone else's memories.

There are a dozen things he believes that have no basis in science, superstitions and religions that are so deep in his bones he doesn't think he'll ever shake them. But he can feel them, the way some things are true despite the universe’s best attempts to disprove them, so as long as they don’t interfere with his work and his patience, he lets himself believe.

He can tell Spock has stepped up behind him with the way the space is suddenly _not empty_. It might be because Vulcans run at a different temperature than humans, but over the last few weeks he’s been able to recognize when Spock enters a room without even turning to look for him. Maybe it should worry him, how easy it’s become to ‘hear’ the Vulcan’s presence.

It doesn’t.

“I did not expect to find you here, Doctor.” He hadn't noticed the slightly hunted tone of Spock’s voice until it was gone, until he had re-united with his siblings and had his familial bonds strengthened and, Len assumes, some communal bonds established from scratch.

Another thing he doesn’t like to think about too much. A man’s mind is private. He’s never going to change his opinion on that, but there are times when people deserve to be let in.

And it’s never really the ones you expect.

“Well, it’s considered good luck to visit the memorial before shipping out. I’ve got almost everything sorted, figured I could waste a few minutes to ask favors of ghosts.”

That damn eyebrow climbs higher, but unfortunately his ears don’t move at all. A pity. Len had gotten used to the little twitches that helped him read the vulcan’s moods. Maybe it was a privacy thing, something Vulcans don’t do in public, maybe it was exhaustion.

It had been kind of cute.

“Do you believe in ghosts, Dr. McCoy?” Vulcans can sound amused, and angry, and a whole range of emotions really. They just lack the facial expressions to show it. It doesn’t matter, because even though Spock doesn’t move a muscle, he can still hear the undercurrent of amusement and curiosity in his voice.

“You don’t, Mr. Spock?” he counters, knowing full well that the Vulcan Katra is the closest thing in the known universe to a soul he’s ever heard of, and that life after death is very literal for most of them.

“Perhaps, but I do not know any well enough to presume asking favours of them.” Spock steps forward, silent and reverental as he glances over the memorial again.

It’s impressive, taking up much of the eastern courtyard on StarFleet Campus and providing a picturesque backdrop to most remembrance ceremonies.

He’s only been here twice since he joined StarFleet, and both those times he didn’t stick around long enough to really appreciate it. It’s beautiful, Len supposes.

He can't look at it for long without picturing a string of ruined birthdays, so the overall effect is lost on him. Black and white and gold marble arching up into the blue sky, ever shifting holograms of nebulae and stars swirling in the center around a single dilithium crystal.

“ _Non lucror, exposita scientia, ad astra_.” Spock murmurs, head tilted as he reads one of the inscriptions on the curved stone. “Not for profit, but for discovering knowledge, approach the heavens.”

“It’s an odd choice, maybe, but it does define their sacrifice nicely, don’t you think?” Len watches Spock out of the corner of his eye, not entirely sure how to approach the topic of loss and sacrifice at the Vulcan scale without touching the wrong nerve, or pushing it in a direction they don’t need to revisit.

“Is it an odd choice, Doctor? After all, the memorial is dedicated to those who lost their lives in service to StarFleet, an organization whose primary mission is peaceful exploration.” Spock isn’t looking at him, instead scanning the glowing blue base of the memorial for something only he can see.

Len shifts, folding his hands behind his back and bouncing up on his toes as the nebula inside the arches slowly fades to a deep green, clouds of purple gas suspended around vacant stars.

“It’s not odd, in that it’s wrong, Spock. I just always thought that ‘Per Audacia Ad Astra’ was more in line with most StarFleet officers I’ve known.” he catches the miniscule flick of Spock’s left ear, the way the corners of his mouth twitch, and he can’t help the grin that spreads over his face. “After all, it took all kinds of chutzpah just to make it to the stars, some days it feels like that’s the only thing that keeps us out there.”

There’s no mistaking the amusement in Spock’s tone when he answers, “Indeed Doctor.” They stand in silence for awhile, Len mentally running though his pre-flight checklist and assuming Spock is doing the same. He still needs to double check the vaccine stocks before Jim even thinks of leaving Spacedock, Apollo help them all if he tries.

“Which ghosts?” It’s a sudden question, one he isn’t expecting and can’t figure out how to answer. Spock turned to face him, noticing the confused eyebrow Len is giving him. He raises an eyebrow in return.

“You mentioned that you came here both to pay your respects and to ask a favor. I was inquiring as to which ghosts you are so intimately acquainted with as to ask them a favor. And to expect a response.”

Well isn’t that kick in the teeth. He supposes that’s the difference between knowing something, as a fact, and knowing the _someone_ who lives with it.

“Well, Mr. Spock, as you know, this is the official StarFleet Memorial for all officers lost during peace-time. But did you know when it was first built?”

He can see the moment Spock puts all those pesky dots together, lines up his fact ducklings and gets them waddling in the right direction. His face is a picture perfect Vulcan example of non-expression, but his ears give him away. They droop down, almost like Joanna’s kitten.

“This is the Kelvin Memorial,” he says, voice wooden. He had sounded more alive while stiffly trying to apologize to the Admiralty for trying to strangle Jim. Jim, of course, kept interrupting him, so that might have helped.

“Not only, and not officially, but yeah. It’s almost 25 years old, only a few months younger then Jim himself. Of course, the official dedication was on his birthday, a year later.” He imagines he can hear the discomfort coming off the Vulcan at his side. Maybe he can.

“Yeah, if you ever meet Winona Kirk, I suggest never bringing this up. Those memorial ceremonies ruined half of Jim’s birthdays till she finally put her foot down and told the Admiralty to fuck off.”

“I see.” Len makes a note to introduce Spock to Jim’s Ma as soon as he can. She’d like him, and the Vulcan could stand to have more chaos in his life.

Although considering the crew roster that isn’t going to be a problem for long.

“Is there anything you are asking George Kirk for in particular?” He can’t tell if Spock is genuinely interested or is just humoring him, but there’s no real difference now is there? Not in practical terms anyway.

“Safety of the ship, safety of the crew, maybe pull a few strings with whomever is upstairs so that Jim doesn’t manage to kill himself during our first year. You know, the basics.” Spock twitches his mouth again, and he’s expecting a ‘how illogical’. Maybe some general statement about there being no higher powers as currently proven.

“That is a rather basic request doctor. Considering your relationship with his son, perhaps you should aim higher.” Spock’s ears flutter at his sudden laugh, and he hopes the Vulcan never stops surprising him. 

Between him and Jim, he’ll probably never have to worry about getting bored.

“That’s the thing Spock. We don’t need miracles, that’s why we’ve got Jim. That’s why we’ve got a crew.” 

Spock looks surprised, ears standing straight up and eyebrows almost gone in his fringe. Apparently the ears thing was arbitrary. Or maybe it just depends on who he’s talking to.

“Indeed, Dr. McCoy.” 

The memorial behind them sweeps upwards, eternally reaching for the stars even as they are caught between its arms.

People keep reaching, Len knows that. For the stars, for the future, for each other. He believes a lot of things, things he can see and feel and touch. But he believes that most of all.

There’s more than one phrase carved into the memorial, more than one thing that defines all of them, he thinks as he hurries after Spock, trying to keep up with the man’s long legged stride.

Len believes in plenty of illogical things. Friendships forged at the almost end of the world may as well be one of them.

* * *

Spock believes in things he can prove.

Like how time travel, despite the VSD’s best efforts and continuous insistence, is both possible and probable. Or that Michael was occasionally, _inconveniently,_ overprotective and Sybok only occasionally perceptive.

That the recovery of his mother did more to stabilize his bonds than three days of meditation had.

There are a number of scientific truths that have been overturned in the last few days. The Vulcans ability to ‘hear’ one another's presence is not one of them. 

The man in the hangar is not his father, and yet. 

His presence is familiar, almost impossibly so. Spock understands once the man turns to face him, recognizing the dip in his brows and the smirk hovering just behind his ears.

He wonders if it is luck or careful planning that let Elder Spock avoid him so long. Perhaps both.

Luck is just a careful buildup of past plans, after all.

“I am not our father.” Elder Spock’s voice is heavy with age, with years Spock himself hasn’t seen. It is like listening to himself through water. Or time.

It has been a few months since he has learned of the possibility of an alternate self in this timeline. In those months he has made certain that Jim Kirk has suffered no ill effects from the mind meld he has been unable to discuss again. 

He is still, if not angry, fairly ticked off.

“Why did you send Kirk aboard, when you alone could have explained the truth?” There is something other than anger buried in his words. It is true that he has not, as of yet, formally applied to the second in command position the Admiralty is so desperate he should take.

It is also true that Jim Kirk is his Captain, and that the man in front of him took an enormous risk, calculated maybe, but still wholly unacceptable, with Kirk’s mind. 

And perhaps he is … _annoyed_ , at how smug the Elder looks at his question. As if he expected this result and was pleased by his display.

“Because you needed each other.” Elder Spock’s ears flick upwards, once, the only indication that what he says means more to him than a means to an end. “I could not deprive you of the revelation of all that you could accomplish together. Of a friendship that would define you both.”

This, Spock can understand. If in his timeline Kirk had left such a lasting impact as he suspected, pushing them together might have seemed logical. If heavy handed in his technique.

He can already, if he concentrates on the Elders words and actions, discern the influence of someone who was in no way Vulcan, in someone who would hack a test because he believed it unjust or jump off a drill to save a life.

Spock believes in things he can prove. He is in the unique position of having proof, before him, of the influences StarFleet and her officers will have on his life, on his future. He cannot deny that the overall effect, if more reckless than he can condone, is impressive.

A leap of faith.

“Good Luck,” his Elder Counterpart says, raising the customary ta’al with a smirk that doesn’t even have the decency to hide.

He lifts his hand, and quirks his lips to the side. “I do not believe in luck.”

The Elder laughs, ears twitching gleefully, and Spock knows that he will sway the High Council like a sandstorm. The idea does not fill him with dread.

“No. But you will.”

  


There is much he needs to do before the Enterprise departs Spacedock. People he will need to confirm with and paperwork he will need to finally submit, despite having it on his padd for the last three weeks.

He does not need to turn around to know the jaunty footsteps beside him belong to someone other than Elder Spock. He would recognize Michael’s gait anywhere.

“So, Commander Spock, where are you off to in a rush?” he slows down long enough for her to thread her arm through his, a habit she developed after thinking him dead for more than thirty-six hours after Va’Pak. He tells himself he allows it for her comfort, but he does not deny he finds it comforting as well.

“After all the Enterprise doesn’t leave for another twelve hours at least, and we both know you’ll be making your entrance as dramatic as the paperwork allows.” Michael’s eyebrows are in perpetual motion when she speaks, almost making up for her lack of ears when they were younger, and he was less adept at reading human facial features.

Right now they are teasing him.

“Tell me, Michael, have you ever forgiven someone for something only to realize that perhaps you hadn’t.”

They don’t stop moving, Michael tightening her grip on his arm and tilting her head, thinking about what he’s said. 

“That’s not confusing at all, Spock. Care to give an example?” She’s worried, he can hear it in her voice, but she is also determined to let him lead this conversation.

They have learned much about healthy communication since they were children.

“Not really. No.” Michael laughs, muffled into her palm as they pass a group of wide eyed cadets, perhaps marveling at the sight of a Vulcan and a Human walking hand in hand, perhaps dazed from their end of year exams.

Who could know.

“Well, then, I can’t really help you figure it out.” He remembers, suddenly, the night Michael tried to run away, and stops abruptly. She had tried so hard to hurt him, had tried to dig beneath what made him, _him,_ and had come up bloody and victorious. At the time he thought she was beyond forgiveness, had only been able to see what she had done and not _why_.

She had taken a path that might have felt cruel, but appeared to her to be the simplest, most effective.

“Actually, you already have.” Michaels eyes dance, and her eyebrow climbs higher, suppressing a smirk he knows will only lead to laughter. Their mothers recovery set her off in a string of giddy relief that has yet to expire.

“How lucky that we ran into each other, then! Always glad to be of service, baby brother.” his ears twitch, amused at her and the coincidence of her words.

Spock believes in things that he can prove. Like the nascent bonds he can feel forming the more time he spends with ‘his’ bridge crew, copper threads twisting slowly between them. The way his family extends to more then just blood.

That sometimes the unlikely becomes the expected.

And maybe he does believe in luck.

* * *

Jim Kirk likes to say he doesn’t believe in much.

That anything, no matter how absurd, can be proven with enough time and conviction and a twisty tongue, and that nothing is ever really true anyway.

That luck is just someone outsmarting you and that miracles are just the universe playing with you. 

It is easy to be cynical when everything was going wrong.

Spock is flicking some sensors to life, pretending he hasn’t just managed to turn what was normally a boring, paperwork filled event into the most dramatic entrance onto a starship he’s ever had the pleasure of witnessing.

Including all of his own.

Uhura winks as he spins the chair back around, Bones grumbling over his shoulder about death and disease and darkness and he’s a fool if he thinks no one hears the excitement buried under all his scowling.

Or maybe Jim just knows him better than most.

The truth is Jim believes in almost everything, at least a little bit.

He knows there’s a kind of magic in the way warp cores work, even though he can take them apart and explain what each piece does. That sometimes you can save a life just by being there, and that the people you surround yourself with are more important than the people who run after you.

That sometimes, for the briefest moments, the world is good. And that those moments are worth waiting for.

If the stars could sing, he likes to think they would, set before him and the brightest crew StarFleet has ever seen. There’s an almost unnatural stillness in the nanosecond between not-warp and warp, and the stars stretch under them, a diamond carpet of worlds, dragged out in a single corridor of light.

He wants to hold his breath, wants to take it all in, but Spock and Bones are quietly bickering about something over his shoulder as Uhura snickers, and Chekov and Sulu take bets on something he probably shouldn’t know about, and he thinks he might burst.

Jim likes to say he doesn’t believe in anything.

But the truth is he believes in almost everything, people most of all.

So far most haven’t let him down.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell with me on tumblr or in the comments, I'll try and yell right back.
> 
> Sareks comment - Rikodikau sfekalik kaluklar t'ish-veh k: his ears betray his anxiety. I took the h/c that vulcans have cat ears and ran with it. translation provided by Caren in the discord.   
> Sfekali-kaya - general word used to refer to ear points twitching, like 'saying eyebrow raise'  
> Kash-shtaya - a brushing of minds, basically reading someones facial expressions but on a telepathic level.


End file.
